


The Bluntness of Grief

by Quantumphysica



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works, The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Character Study, Communication Failure, Considerations About Kin And The Slaying Thereof, Dysfunctional Families Of Beleriand: Nan Elmoth Edition, Eöl's Terrible Life Decisions, Guilt, Hurt/Comfort, Other Additional Tags to Be Added, Psychological Trauma, Sentient Swords, Thingol's Terrible Life Decisions, Túrin's Terrible Life Decisions, Unhealthy Relationships
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2015-08-13
Updated: 2016-01-24
Packaged: 2018-04-14 13:56:03
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 14,696
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4567074
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Quantumphysica/pseuds/Quantumphysica
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Or, the story of the swords of Eöl. </p><p>(Without a doubt the strangest character study I have ever written.)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Anglachel

The first thing they knew was touch. They had not _been_ , before, and their being was unstable, still grasping in the wake of its new existence. They did not know how to _be_. (How? To know? Why? They quivered in the magnitude that was _being_ with something they would later learn was _fear_.) But the touch was calm and grounding, and as it soothingly traced their edges, they came to accept this _being_. Their awareness grew, and they accepted their form as their own.

And at last, they knew the hands that touched them. They knew their resonance, their being that shone through its soft sheath of flesh. They would know them anywhere.

_Mother. Father. Creator._

They had no concept for what they felt, no name for the bright, fiery glow that kindled within them. They only _felt_ , until they felt like they would be destroyed in this, that surely this was too much for this new form of theirs. (How could they have recognized happiness?)

A deep, warm voice reverberated through them, as in answer to a question they had not spoken.

“Anglachel.”

The metal of their being soaked it up, recognized the meaning of the word. Anglachel.

They were Anglachel.

_They were alive now._

 

… … … …

 

“This is Anguirel.”

With those words, mother-father-creator held out another blade, in a strange sort of introduction. Anglachel could feel the resonance of the other sword weave into their own, harmonic, a perfect complement.

_Brother. Sister. Mate._

Anglachel had not known _alone_ was a feeling, until then, until from one moment to the next they were no longer singular, no longer merely themself. In a single instant their entire comprehension was altered to incorporate two. Anguirel was young still, brand new and hesitant in reaching out, but when their thoughts touched, their metal sang in joyful recognition.

They were made to be _together_.

 

… … … …

 

Mother-father-creator would often polish them, even though they didn’t require it. Anglachel relished in the touch, its reassuring affection. They hummed along with the strange melodies that fell from their mother-father-creator’s lips, and drifted in warm dreamless resonance with Anguirel.

Other times they would be taken in hand for exercises, drills that made them familiar with the motions of a fight. Even without an opponent, Anglachel thrummed with excitement every time they were handled like this. In the core of their being they were crafted for combat, and it felt good to be used as such.

Everything felt right in those moments. (It was _home_.)

 

… … … …

 

Their world was no larger than their mother-father-creator’s workshop. It was a good place, warm and dark and filled with the companionable resonance of metal worked well. Anglachel was usually content to just sit in their wall-mounted rack next to Anguirel, to observe and learn from what happened in the forge. Sometimes however, when mother-father-creator wasn’t there, their thoughts drifted. They dreamed.

_\- of darkness so deep that it would break them, their shards tearing apart black flesh and drowning their agony in black blood–_

No matter how many times the dream recurred, they still woke up crying, clinging to Anguirel’s reassuring presence.

Anglachel knew their brother-sister-mate wasn’t spared from the frightening dreams either. They dreamed of brightness, of crystalline screams and light so harsh and hot it would dissolve their very being. Those were the times they had to comfort Anguirel.

In the dark of night, still half in throws of their dream, the younger sword would cry the same thing again and again.

_I don’t want to die._

Anglachel didn’t want to die either. Maybe that was the curse of sentience, of _being_. The other metal in the forge had no such fear. It rejoiced in being worked with skill, without true attachment to the form it lost or gained in the progress. It did not fear destruction, or loss. It seemed a strange thing to contemplate, even.

But wasn’t their fear just as strange? After all, what was death for a sword?

 

… … … …

 

People came to the workshop more often now, arguing with mother-father-creator about land and protection, trade and payment, things Anglachel had only the most rudimentary knowledge of. But the people that visited were different from mother-father-creator; their voices echoed condescension, their postures emitted disdain. The visitors’ unhidden disrespect was so great it made Anglachel wish mother-father-creator would take them in hand and end their miserable lives.

_“So vengeful, brother-sister-mate.”_

Anguirel wasn’t as eager to fight as they were. The younger sword was of the opinion that if left alone, this too would pass, like so many other disputes they had witnessed.

_“They disrespect our mother-father-creator. How can you not wish them punished?”_

_“We don’t know enough. Mother-father-creator might bear their taunts for a purpose we do not understand.”_

That could be right. Anguirel was usually right when it came to such things. Yet still… They didn’t trust the people that left mother-father-creator so agitated with each confrontation. This didn’t seem like an ordinary dispute between blacksmith and client…

 

… … … …

 

“I will have to leave you.”

Anglachel had known something was wrong when mother-father-creator had taken them in the side-room to be polished, out of sight from Anguirel. Still, the words sent a shiver through them. Had they displeased mother-father-creator? Why would they be left? And where? Mother-father-creator’s fingers soothingly stroked their blade.

“It is not my wish. But it is the price for my freedom.” He sighed. “I came here many years ago because I wished to know those of my kind, my kin. It was my mistake to think those are the same thing.” He wryly smiled. ”I had more kin among the dwarves, for all that we looked nothing alike.” For a moment, he hesitated. “They wish to fence this kingdom. Lay the magic of the Belain over it so none can enter and none can leave without permission. For protection, they say. But I refuse to be so imprisoned. In all the years I have lived here this place hasn’t become my home, and I won’t be bound to it.”

Anglachel’s mind dazzled with all the information. Mother-father-creator had spoken before of things outside, like the king and the balan-queen, the fell beasts of the Enemy, the dwarves he had once lived with, and many other things… but this was more complicated. Every sentence was coloured with layers of resonating meanings and connotations… _Anguirel would have been better at this._

“My folk, though I was not raised among them, chose not to live under the rule of the Belain once. Having lived here, I believe they chose so with reason.” Another wry smile twisted his lips. “The King has long coveted you and your twin, Anglachel. And my plans to leave have given him excuse to claim you. The star-iron I made you from was found within Doriath, and the king believes this gives him right to you. He has demanded one of you in payment for the lands of Nan Elmoth on the outer edge of Doriath, and the right to live there under my own rule. He made it clear that since the star-iron technically belonged to him, he might as well claim you both. I… I have little choice but to comply.”

Though mother-father-creator’s voice was calm and steady, it shivered with resentment and defeat. Anglachel felt a burning hatred awake within them.

“He will pay for this.”

Their voice was deep, with a dark, sharp edge. The sound startled Anglachel themself more than it seemed to surprise their mother-father-creator, who only nodded.

“Oh yes, that he will. Those who name things onto themselves that they have no right to, always pay the price in the end.”

They had long been polished two times over, but still mother-father-creator rubbed their blade with the utmost care. To know it might be the last time… Anglachel would have wailed, had their newfound voice been amenable to it.

Mother-father-creator softly shook his head. “Do not think I prefer your twin over you. I would not have given up either of you, had I had the choice. But Anguirel is younger than you, in make and in mind, and his character is more pliable. I would not leave him to Thingol and his witch-wife. You are stronger. Angrier. I know they won’t be able to twist you to their purposes.”

Swords were supposed to serve their wielders, in protection and assault. Anglachel had often thought about the day they would be taken up to serve mother-father-creator in battle. Certainly, they had imagined more blood and less politics, but in the end this came down to the same. If they could only protect mother-father-creator and Anguirel like this, then so be it. A cold, cutting emotion jolted through their being. _Anguirel_ …

“Does Anguirel know?”

Once again, mother-father-creator didn’t bat an eye at their speech.

“Not yet. I wanted to tell you first, given that this concerns your fate foremost. I expect he will be upset.”

Anglachel didn’t answer anymore. They would need their strength for Anguirel.

 

… … … …

 

Eventually the day came that mother-father-creator had to hand them over to King Thingol. Anglachel had so far tried to face their ordeal with grace and dignity –mostly for Anguirel who had wailed and cried enough for two– yet when the moment was there, and they felt how they were passed from mother-father-creator’s hands into the cold, grasping fingers of the king, they well and nearly screamed. They hated him. THEY HATED HIM. Rage and anguish fought for dominion so fiercely within them, they were certain the king could feel them tremble. They would cut off his greedy fingers, would he dare to test their edge! Mother-father-creator made a cursory bow and walked away, not looking back. They wanted to cry out to him, beg him to take them back home, to please not leave them here with this cold, callus-less tyrant… but their true voice refused service, and mother-father-creator had closed his thoughts too tightly to hear their mindvoice. When the doors of the audience hall closed behind him, Anglachel felt the pain of abandonment crash down on them. They were _alone_ now.

“You must not ever bear this blade, husband. It will do you ill.”

The Queen. Her hand touched them, and it was like another sword clanging against them. This was no woman. This was a weapon no less than they were; forged not born. Her flesh was a sheath she would cast aside to wield herself if it came to it. Anglachel would have lied if they had said they hadn’t been a tiny bit impressed. But that changed nothing.

_I will cut you still, balan-queen._

To their surprise, they suddenly felt another mind resonate with them, thick and cloying and full of unsettlingly dark undertones. 

_“I don’t doubt it, little blackheart.”_

The Queen spoke again to her husband.

“I can feel its malice. The dark heart of the smith that forged it still dwells in it.”

Noticeably loath, the king handed them over to his wife.

“Then it should probably be sealed away.”

“No. Keep it in the armoury. Such a thing as this is best left within plain sight.”

Anglachel had felt terror at the thought of solitary confinement, but refused to be grateful for the queen’s intervention. They remembered the stories of mother-father-creator about the Belain. Hers would be a poisoned gift no doubt.

 

… … … …

 

The king’s armoury was large and well filled. But they were still _alone_. And worse. Their place on the wall could have been a place of honour, but it felt more like a pillory.

Most of the swords in the armoury didn’t speak with voices, but still the blades’ rejection was tangible. Anglachel was _wrong_ ; too hard and too dark. Their unique resonance was dissonant in this king’s legion of carbon steel sameness.

Worse than that was Aranrúth, the sword of the king. It was older and larger than Anglachel, and just as cold, judgmental and cantankerous as its owner. Unfortunately for them it was also the only sword in the armoury with some form of mindvoice, which it mainly used to express disapproval and distrust of a blade that would shatter other blades. Anglachel somewhat suspected the sword held a grudge against them for having been coveted so by the king. (They had no doubt Aranrúth was petty enough for that.)

The worst, however, was what wasn’t there. Anguirel. They missed Anguirel so deeply it hurt. They didn’t dare to slip from awareness, not even to escape the daunting place that was the armoury, for fear they would dream. They were _alone_ , and it was crippling.

 

… … … …

 

Their depression lasted as long as it took to remember mother-father-creator’s words.

_“You are stronger. Angrier. I know they won’t be able to twist you to their purposes.”_

It wasn’t much to sustain on, but it would have to be enough. They’d show them. With their father-mother-creator’s determined words as a mantra, Anglachel converted their sorrow to wrath, their pain to hatred, until it didn’t hurt so much as _burn_.

Years passed. Anger became a madness of sorts, a poison that served as an antidote to something worse. They hadn’t been so much as touched in over a long year. They hadn’t been spoken to in so long they could hardly remember how to form words. Thinking hurt. Everything hurt. The anger had clouded their memories. They didn’t remember mother-father-creator’s face. It hurt only so long as it took to be mad about it.

 

… … … …

 

They were alone, until they were _not_. Anglachel’s disjointed mind had stopped keeping track of time, and eventually of the surroundings as well. As such, they didn’t see the hand that reached out to them until it had already wrapped around their hilt and lifted them from the wall.

It was shocking, exhilarating, painfully blissful. It had been so long since the last time they had felt the touch of anything except for dust that Anglachel almost didn’t recognize the feeling. But what a feeling it was! As they hungrily soaked up the sensation of finally – _finally!_ – being held again, the only thought in their mind was for this touch to please, please not end. They would do anything if it meant they wouldn’t be abandoned again. Anglachel reckoned they had lost a great deal of self-respect during these long years in Menegroth’s armoury. They couldn’t bring themself to care, however. It was just so good to be held again… They only vaguely followed the conversation that went between the one that held them and the much-hated king Thingol.

“That sword? Are you certain?”

“Your majesty, you told me this sword will pierce any armour, shatter any weapon, and slice through any substance, even bare rock. It seems to be exactly what I need. No orc will stand against this blade.”

“It is a weapon of evil intent. It is treacherous, and resents those who wield it. It will bring you bad luck.”

“But it truly is as powerful a blade as you told me?”

Reluctantly, King Thingol acceded,

“… Yes.”

“Then this is the sword I will take, my King. I can find none better suited to my purpose.”

Much to their own shame, Anglachel was only relieved to hear they wouldn’t be thrown back in the armoury.

 

… … … …

 

“I don’t believe you are inherently evil.”

Their new wielder was a tall blond elf named Beleg Cuthalion. Anglachel didn’t want to like him. He was an elf of Doriath, and a favourite of Thingol no less. They absolutely didn’t want to like him. However, the blond bastard sure knew how to make it difficult. For starters, he had introduced himself to them. Who even did that? Even well appreciated, non-evil swords usually didn’t have to count on such courtesy… And now he was carefully cleaning off the dust of years from their blade, taking his time to return the shine Anglachel hadn’t even realized they’d lost.

“There’s probably a reason why you are called such, I’m not naïve. But I’m going to take a guess here and assume you too had your reasons for whatever earned you such an epitaph. I won’t reckon you by the deeds of those who came before me.” The elf admiringly stroked them. “I hope you can extend the same consideration to me.”

Yes, it would be very, very difficult to dislike this elf…

 

… … … …

 

The first time they tasted blood was a turning point. Anglachel had known before that they were made for battle, as such was inevitably the nature of swords… but it was only when they first sliced through the skull of an orc and felt its miserable spark of being die, that they truly _knew_ their purpose. The understanding resonated through their being as they cut and sliced through orcish flesh, drunk on the taste of blood and lives ending. In murder their mind and make were one. Nothing existed but the next kill, the next enemy to fall on their edge. They laughed out loud, overcome with pure visceral elation. It was a delight like no other...

 

… … … …

 

Beleg was a good bearer. He was an expert swordsman, unrelenting in his pursuit of the enemy, and unfailingly thorough in their upkeep. Anglachel didn’t try to dislike them anymore. Once it had become clear that Beleg was simply too hard to dislike, and that trying to muster hate for him was a hopeless venture, they had tried for indifference. But… that too seemed doomed to fail. Maybe if the elf had simply treated them as any other sword that did its duty, then perhaps it could have worked. But Beleg spoke to them, as only mother-father-creator had done. He told them of his friends (most notably the accident-prone friend he had been tasked to find), of the woods of Doriath, of his life as a marchwarden… The small titbits of one-sided conversation were likely just a way to stave of loneliness, yet they made it very hard for Anglachel to be indifferent about him.

The more they fought together, the closer they felt to the blond elf. It wasn’t anything like the _together_ ness as they had had with Anguirel, or the warm affection of mother-father-creator, but it was companionship, and somehow it made the absence of all the previous more bearable.  
(They already loved him then, though they didn’t know it.)

 

… … … …

 

They did not like Turin. The man was brash, hot-headed, and his arrogance was only rivalled by his astonishing ability to get in trouble (two characteristics Anglachel believed were intricately linked, for that matter.)  
Of course, without Turin they would still be in the armoury, so in their own way, Anglachel was grateful for the man and his dubious life decisions. However, now they had met him, they didn’t really understand what Beleg saw in him. The man’s choice of friends was about as sensible as all his other choices. (In other words, common sense hadn’t been within a mile radius of it.) Anglachel didn’t think they would ever forgive the brutish robbers who had tormented _his_ elf; it was jarring to have to fight with them rather than against them. They wished Beleg had simply left Turin to his band of ill-mannered miscreants. Nothing good would come from this.

 

… … … …

 

It happened too fast. They didn’t mean to. They never would have thought such a small prod would enrage the human so! They didn’t mean to! One moment they were still firmly held within Beleg’s hand, the next moment they already tasted the tang of his blood, felt the last shiver of his dying being resonate through their form. They screamed, even before the loss ripped through their metal and the realization of what they had done shattered their mind in pure agony.

 _They had betrayed him._ They didn’t mean to! _They had killed him._ It was an accident! _He was gone now, gone for good._ They were _all alone_ again. _It was their fault._ The pain that wrecked through their being was unimaginable. It was too much. Anglachel could feel themself break, inside.

_No more_

They were still screaming when their mind gave out.

_Please no more_

 

… … … …

 

They woke to softness, a kind voice and a soothing touch. _It hurt. It hurt so much._ They were lost. Anguirel! They wanted Anguirel. … Can’t. Gone. All gone. They were _alone_ now.  
They cried.

…

Singing. There was singing. Mother-father-creator? No. Wrong. Wrong, wrong, wrong, like them, like them. _It hurt._

…

It was too dark. They were so tired. Why did it hurt so much?

…

_It had been their fault._

…

Was this insanity? They could only think when they did not remember. Their mind was full of thick, cold darkness. They understood no more. Had their blade been broken? Maybe they were dying. It felt like they might be dying.

…

_It would be good to die._

 

… … … …

 

_“Anglachel…”_

They didn’t realize they had responded to a call until they woke again, held in slender, callused hands. Their senses were dull, the pain a throbbing ache in the depth of their being. They were awake, but only barely. Their thoughts felt viscid, slow and syrupy in their mind. It took a while before they processed the voice that called out to them. _“Anglachel, do you hear me?”_

It was familiar. Mindvoice, resonance, warmth. Another blade? No, this… this was a person. How…? They forced their mind to form an answer.

_“Who… are you?”_

_“My name is Celebrimbor. I am the smith who was asked to repair you.”_

Repair them? So they had been broken… They shuddered.

_“Don’t want to be repaired.”_

The smith’s voice was calm, soothing.

_“I thought so. There is nothing wrong with you, apart from the fact that you are blunt and no one knows why. It was my guess that you are blunt by choice.”_

Blunt. That seemed… fitting. The pain felt blunt too, now.

_“It hurts.”_

Celebrimbor’s voice was tinted with memories.

_“Yes. Grief always hurts.”_

They cried.

_“I want it to stop.”_

_“I know. Sssh.”_

He sang. The language and the melody were strange; different from the songs they knew from mother-father-creator. But… it was comforting. It felt… It felt like _home_. Anglachel listened, and as the cadence of the song wrapped them in warmth and cradled them to sleep, they forgot the pain for a little while.

 

… … … …

 

Celebrimbor’s smithy was a good place. Under the earth, like the forge they had been born in. Sooty and warm, and resonant with chiming gem-song and the contented hum of skilfully worked metal. Anglachel wanted to stay here. They didn’t want to fight anymore, never wanted to kill again. The thought made them sick, made them remember the feeling of _–his blood, his flesh, his shuddering, choking last breath forced from bloodied lips-_ They tried not to remember.

The madness was never far away though. It would grip them unexpectedly, reaching up from that cold, aching place within them to drag their entire mind into darkness again. They kept no memory of those times, no recollection except for pain. They never knew how long it took, how much time they lost.  Celebrimbor didn’t tell them. The smith held them and comforted them, but asked nor answered any questions. It suited Anglachel well enough. They didn’t want to speak about it anyway.

…

One day however, Celebrimbor did ask.

_“Who is Anguirel?”_

The question cut through them, right into that dark place they tried to ignore in-between the days of madness. They curled in on themself.

_“Why?”_

_“It is a name you scream, when you dream.”_

_“No._ Why _did you ask?”_

Their voice trembled. Anguirel. Home. They had only the vaguest memories of _together_. Anguirel was gone, so very long already. They were always _alone_ now.

_“Because you need to speak of it, or you will never be healed.”_

They defiantly squared themself against the smith’s softly persuasive undertone.

_“I don’t want to be healed.”_

Celebrimbor sighed and gently stroked their blade.

_“No. You don’t want to be in pain. But you already are, and no matter how you try to outrun it, that pain always catches up with you. It is poison to your mind.”_

_“What do you know of that?”_

Celebrimbor hesitated.

_“I have seen people… kin of mine, lost to pain as you are. I… I know.”_

Anglachel didn’t believe him.

_I don’t want to talk about it._

Celebrimbor nodded, a glint of sadness in his gaze.

_“All right.”_

 

… … … …

 

They woke in the middle of a heated conversation. Celebrimbor was speaking with another elf, a tall male dressed in pale robes unsuited for work in a forge –or any sort of work, really. _Someone official, probably._ Their voices were polite, but their entire demeanour echoed tension; Celebrimbor had instinctively fallen into his sword stance, even without a weapon in his hand. _Definitely not a friendly chat._

“Merion, you wouldn’t send a mad warhorse back into the fray either. This is not so different.”

A scathing laugh.

“You would compare a piece of metal to a living, breathing animal? Tyelpë, I know your family tends to get overly attached to their _things_ , but isn’t that taking it a little too far? It’s still just a sword, not a person!”

“Then how do you explain that not one smith in Nargothrond has been able to sharpen it? It has a will of its own. It won’t fight anymore.”

The elf huffed.

“It’s a strange material. Who is to say what its properties are? It’s more likely that we simply don’t know the correct procedure to sharpen it.”

“More likely?”

“More likely than your traumatized sword theory, at least. I hope you realize how flagrantly stupid it sounds when you hear it from another’s mouth.”

“Objects may have a will of their own. This wouldn’t be the first time.”

The other elf shook his head in mock exasperation, and after a dramatic eye-roll a wicked little smile played on his lips.

“Do you know what other theory I picked up?”

“Oh?”

“That a certain smith has let his eye fall on that star-metal, and that if only he can convince Orodreth and that human protégé of his that the sword is useless, he’ll get to experiment with it for his own gain.”

“What?!”

The elf shook his long brown mane, smugness written over his face.

“Oh, nothing. Just that you might want to reconsider what sort of things you spread around. Not everyone is happy to have kinslayers’ ilk here, after all. If you start making moves to advance yourself, convincing the king of your little theories, you could find that your position here very tenuous indeed…” The elf sent Celebrimbor a self-satisfied, knowing smirk. “It wouldn’t do to forget you’re essentially a charity case.”

With that, he turned and left the workshop, robes billowing behind him.

The conversation left Celebrimbor obviously agitated, and Anglachel a little puzzled. A charity case? Celebrimbor was a skilled smith, and his work was in high demand. Surely he could support himself easily? And that elf. So disrespectful! What ever had the smith done to deserve that kind of derision?

They found themself… curious.

…

_“Why are you a charity case?”_

They asked while Celebrimbor was polishing him. The smith shrugged.

_“Why should I tell you? You will not speak of your past to me either.”_

That was different. That wasn’t just a story to tell. It _hurt_! They _couldn’t_ speak of it! It was too… They stopped blank before their thoughts could get away from them.

_“Not the same.”_

Celebrimbor levelled a pointed stare at them, putting down the polishing cloth for a moment.

_“Are you really so sure about that?”_

Anglachel wanted to say yes. But they weren’t sure, not really. This smith could hear the voice of metal. He was more like mother-father-creator than any other they had ever met. He had been kind to them when they had been lost to the darkness, and even now he had defended them against this haughty elf lord. In truth, who were they to discard his past as just another story to tell?

_“… no.”_

_“At least you’re honest.”_

_“It is very difficult for a sword to lie.”_

Celebrimbor seemed surprised by that.

_“I did not know that.”_

_“By its very nature, a sword cannot lie about its purpose. Why should it lie about anything else?”_

_“That… makes a strange sort of sense.”_

There was a silence, in which Celebrimbor returned to polishing them. Just when they thought there would be no more conversation that evening, the smith spoke up.

 _“I have renounced my father. Repudiated his deeds, and the deeds of his brothers. They were my only family in these lands. I… I have no one now.”_ His words thickly resonated with a feeling Anglachel knew, so very well. _Alone_ ness. They shivered.

 _“My father… is probably as close to evil as one can come without falling under the rule of the Enemy. Even if he wasn’t a bad person from the start, his deeds have set him on a path that will inevitably lead to death, if not of himself, then of countless innocents. Those are footsteps I refused to follow in.”_ Celebrimbor swallowed. _“Yet he was my father. His brothers were my uncles. And in the end… I chose that what I felt was right over what felt right.”_

He sent them a wan, mirthless smile.

_“So you see, that is why I am a “charity case”, as they say. I have no family but myself, no name but the one my mother gave me, and the people here won’t let me forget that they could cast me out just the same as they did the kin I broke bonds with. I am here only by grace of the king.”_

Anglachel remembered. They remembered being _alone_ in a place full of others, the distrust and contempt thrown at them, the first tastes of madness born from pure misery. _Anguirel. Mother-father-creator. Beleg_. A sharp ache cut through them. _So_ _alone_! They curled in on themself on instinct, desperately hoping for the pain to pass rather than grab hold of their mind. When it only barely drew away without bringing on another episode of insanity, Anglachel made a decision.

_“I… I will tell you of Anguirel.”_

And they did.

 

… … … …

 

Celebrimbor was right. It hurt to talk, but it helped. They cried when they realized how hard it was to even remember Anguirel, or mother-father-creator, or _home_. The years had made them abstract, names to give to their grief more than faces and voices.

Anglachel didn’t know where they were now. Were they still in the lands of Nan Elmoth, or had they travelled further away from Doriath? Had mother-father-creator perhaps returned to the halls of the dwarves he always spoke so fondly of? Did they miss them? Did they even remember them? It hurt to think about. But for the first time, they realized it hurt more to not think about it. The memories were all they had left. To let them fade was to lose their home all over again.

 

… … … …

 

_“What do they mean with ‘kin-slayer’?”_

More people had come to ask for progress on the sword –meaning them- including the obnoxious Merion and a few more of his like. Not every conversation stayed equally polite, and the word had fallen more than once. Though obviously a curse, Anglachel didn’t find it the most obvious insult. When they posed their question though, Celebrimbor looked at them as if he thought they might be joking.

_“A kin-slayer is someone who has slain his kin.”_

That did not say much. Kin was a difficult thing. Who was kin to whom? Anglachel had given the matter some thought before, and hadn’t fully managed to make sense of it. Kin to them was Anguirel, for certain. They were of the same make, the same material, the same mother-father-creator. They were closest kin, brother-sister-mates. And mother-father-creator himself was of course kin as well. He was their parent, even though they held no outer likeness. That wasn’t necessary anyway, for kin. Hadn’t mother-father-creator called the dwarves kin? Anglachel halted. Was kin of kin, kin as well? Did that mean they were kin of the dwarves? This needed clarification.

_“Kin of your father, is kin to you. Yes?”_

It seemed that Celebrimbor was starting to understand how difficult a concept this kin-slaying thing really was, because something in his gaze shifted, and he frowned.

_“Kinslaying means slaying those of the same kind as yourself. It is the worst crime known to elves._

That seemed… a strange thing to say.

_“Kin and kind are not the same.”_

This they had learned from mother-father-creator. And it was logical, really. If kin equalled kind, they supposedly shared greater kinship with any random blade than their own mother-father-creator, for they were technically of the same “kind”. (For as far as swords could be considered a kind, which was a whole other issue by itself, really.) Celebrimbor sighed.

_“They aren’t. But… the term kinslaying comes from a time when there was no concept of murder perpetrated by one not of the Enemy. Before the first kinslaying, our entire kind was united as kin in the face of the darkness. Good and evil were clear-cut.”_

_“So kinslaying is an exponent of the simple truth that nothing is clear-cut. It is the destruction of an illusion.”_

_“I don’t think I have ever heard it put so candidly. But… yes. I suppose that is about it.”_ Celebrimbor’s expression was sad. _“But you will find that elves in general are very opposed to having their illusions destroyed.”_

Anglachel found it all rather confusing. It mostly confirmed what they had already known about the nature of elves, namely that they were nothing if not hypocrite. The concept had peaked their interest though. After all, weren’t they a blade that destroyed other blades?

_“I am a kinslayer, by your definition.”_

Celebrimbor raised an eyebrow.

_“You’re a sword.”_

_“That can –and has- destroyed other swords.”_

_“What is the point you are trying to make?”_

Anglachel considered their words.

 _“I did not choose my make. But I chose my edge.”_ They hesitated. _“You and I… we are not so different.”_

Celebrimbor pensively looked at them, sorrow in his too-bright eyes.

_“Perhaps we are not, indeed.”_

 

… … … …

 

As time passed, more and more people reacted to Celebrimbor’s apparent “unwillingness” to truly find a solution for “Turin’s blunt sword”, and Anglachel could see it weighed on the smith.

They resented being coined “Turin’s Sword”. They had been Beleg’s Sword, and with him gone, they wanted to belong to no one but themself. However… they could see the strain on Celebrimbor, and they could tell this situation was slowly moving towards an inevitable boiling point.

_They remembered another smith, in another, darker forge, who had stood his ground against a king until he had no more choice but to comply with his demands._

Maybe Thingol had been right, and they were bad luck… From their perch on the wall, they observed and considered Celebrimbor. The smith had been unfailingly kind to them in the face of their madness; he had cared for them, comforted them, drawn them back from the darkness of grief. Without him, they would still be lost inside themself. He… he deserved better than this. Once that thought settled into their mind, Anglachel came to an inescapable conclusion.

_They would have to go._

 

… … … …

 

They told him the next evening, after yet another annoying elf had come to “inform” after the smith’s progress. 

_“There is a way you can… repair me.”_

Surprise was written on Celebrimbor’s face at this.

 _“How do you mean? You aren’t damaged in any way that a blacksmith can help with. You told me yourself your bluntness is your own choice.”_ They frowned. _“I wouldn’t force you to come back on that even if I could.”_

Anglachel squared themself.

_“I am broken.”_

_“You’re not.”_

_“You don’t understand. I am broken, inside. And for a sword, being and form are close to one. I could not be more broken if my blade had cracked as badly as my mind. You'll... You'll have to reforge me."_

They saw understanding dawn in the smith’s eyes, along with sadness. 

_“Anglachel… Why… Why would you tell me this?”_

_“Because I have to go. Even if you keep defying the king and his retainers, you won’t be able to keep me. In their eyes, you have no right to me. It… it is better like this.”_

Celebrimbor bit his lip.

_“I’m sorry.”_

_“Don’t be. It will probably be done anyway, eventually. If not by you, then by some other, less careful smith tasked with making a useful blade out of me. And I… I’d rather have you do it than anyone else.”_

Rather someone who knew them, someone who cared, than some unknown who thought them no more sentient than a hunk of raw ore.

_“Do you know what will happen to… well, you?”_

Anglachel hesitated. They had tried their hardest to keep their mindvoice even, but now their emotions trembled in it.

_“I… I will not be Anglachel anymore.”_

They didn’t know who or what they would be, but they would no longer be the blade that came from mother-father-creator’s hands. Maybe that was for the better. Perhaps they wouldn’t hurt so much anymore, when they were remade.

_“Life has been unkind to you.”_

The words resonated with warm affection and profound regret. Anglachel wasn’t sure it comforted them or made them want to cry. Probably both. By some miracle though, they kept their voice steady.

_“Maybe it will be kinder to my new self.”_

_“With Turin?”_

They laughed, nervously, without mirth.

_“He could very well be the only being this side of the sea whose luck is unquestionably worse than my own. We're practically made for each other.”_

They would be made for him, in any case. The thought was deeply depressing. Celebrimbor stroked their form, gently, as if they were built of spun glass rather than the hardest material in Arda.

_“I wish this wasn’t needed.”_

They hadn’t said it when mother-father-creator told them of what would happen. They had tried to stoically accept their fate and not show their anxiety, their grief, their distress. No longer. Their voice quivered.

_“S-So do I.”_

 

… … … …

 

_“I’m scared.”_

Celebrimbor soothingly caressed their blade, a gesture so familiar by now that its comfort was almost painful in this moment.

_“I know.”_

He didn’t say it wouldn’t hurt, or that it would be over soon. Anglachel was glad he didn’t lie to them. For all they knew, this might hurt worse than anything in the world. They shivered. Celebrimbor gently calmed them.

_“Sssh.. It will be all right.”_

Of all the things he could have said, all the platitudes he could have used for comfort, that was the only one Anglachel could - _had to_ \- will themself to believe. A sob escaped them.

_“T-Thank you.”_

_“Sssh. Sleep, Anglachel.”_

He sang. It was that strange, lilting lullaby again, that song that felt like _home,_ even though they didn’t understand the words. Curling up inside themself, they allowed the melody to wash over them. They didn’t try to fight it. And as their senses dimmed and their mind slowly sank in warm, soft darkness, one last thought flitted through their mind.

_They wished… they could have seen Anguirel. One last time._

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to write a story from the point of view of Anglachel, who I have always felt was deeply misunderstood. If the sword was truly were malicious and bent on betraying Beleg, why did it mourn him so? And was it really so surprising that it held a grudge against Thingol, who separated it from the only family it ever knew? Also, since Anglachel was sentient, I can't imagine it took well to being abandoned in the armoury for years and years... If a sword reaches maturity with its first battle, Anglachel pretty much spent its formative childhood years in lonely incarceration. That must have left a trace... (I have so much feels about these swords what the hell is wrong with me xD)
> 
> Anyway. Here comes a lot of headcanon and fanon for this story!   
>  
> 
>   * Polishing is like physical affection for swords. 
> 

>   * Swords are rather attached to factual truth. This is why Anglachel doesn't use the male pronouns Eöl used for them and Anguirel; they are non-gendered in nature and find it counter-instinctive to use gendered pronouns to describe themself. 
> 

>   * Also, even non-magical, not inherently sentient swords soak up energy and personality of their owner, if they are owned by the same being long enough. (This to explain Aranruth having a mindvoice as well; the sword was older than Anglachel, and had been made for especially for Thingol. It would have been fully attuned to him.)
> 

>   * Then, Celebrimbor can mindspeak with Anglachel. Given that Anglachel is -canonically!- a sentient being with a verbal mind, this could be possible. Eöl never had conversations in mindspeak/osanwë with them, though he could understand their mindvoice. I attribute this to Eöl knowing or suspecting that Anglachel and their mate would be able to develop an actual voice, and him not wanting to inhibit its development. (Kind of like how you don't speak French to your kid if you want it to grow up English-speaking.) 
> 

>   * Anglachel and Anguirel's mind, their "being", is different from conventionally incarnate beings like elves and men. They _are_  their material, their make, their form. They have no "fëa" that is separate from their material form, so to reforge them means to alter who they are. (This is why Anglachel refers to people's flesh as a sheath. People can lose their flesh without losing their being.)
> 

>   * Anglachel has some form of sword-PTSD. Having seen trauma in all sorts and sizes in his own family, Celebrimbor somewhat recognizes the symptoms. 
> 

> 
> This story also makes use of several fanons I've picked up over time while reading silmarillion fics. The term "mother-father-creator" was used by Urloth in one of their living Silmaril stories, and I thought it was rather fitting here too. (credit where credit is due!)
> 
> Also, Eöl being an Avari elf fostered by dwarves is a fanon (I don't remember where I got it from), but it's not canonically impossible. In this story, I had him come to Doriath along with the dwarves of Nogrod when Thingol commissioned his palace, and stay because he wanted to get to know his own species. (Which didn't end well, given the distaste of the Sindar for both Avari and dwarves.)
> 
> PLEASE REVIEW! Reviews are love and Silmarils ^^
> 
> PS: I haven't forgotten any of my other stories, don't worry. This just demanded to be written…


	2. Anguirel (Part I)

Mother-father-creator had once told them of shadow-pain, the unexplainable ache an amputee might feel in a limb that is no longer there. It was rather common among the dwarves apparently, as mining accidents occasionally resulted in loss of extremities. They had not really understood it then, unable to stretch their imagination of a flesh-sheathed nature that far.

They did now.

Anglachel was gone, and it _hurt_.

It hurt in their absence, in the silence where their resonance used to be, in the empty spot in a sword rack made to fit two. It was pain with a sense of disorientation, _bewilderment_ , as if their being could not grasp they had been truly separated.

They had cried when mother-father-creator had told them, screamed and begged and pleaded, and it had not helped. It had not kept their brother-sister-mate with them; it had not brought them back. Now they were silent.

It hurt too much to speak. 

 

… … … …

 

Mother-father-creator was… careful around them. He spoke softly, watchful of his words, and polished them with tender reverence. He talked of the preparations for leaving, the pieces he was finishing, the plans for the new house and forge, the people who had expressed interest in joining him… But not a word fell about Anglachel. Not a single mention. Anguirel didn’t understand it. How could he so easily accept this? How could he so easily adjust to Anglachel’s absence, make plans without them, as if they were _nothing,_ as if they had _never been there?_ Had nothing changed for him?

They would not speak. They refused to acknowledge this world that had no place for Anglachel. They would be silent forevermore, if they had to.

 

… … … …

 

Mother-father-creator moved, and an entire household moved with him. Anguirel let it pass them by. Once upon a time, they would have been excited, eager to see the world beyond the walls of the workshop, thrilled to be worn and possibly wielded by mother-father-creator… But now, all they felt was loss.

The old workshop was not _home_. Not anymore. But they didn’t want to leave it. It was the only place they had ever known. The walls held memories. If they left, they might forget.

_And everyone else seemed to have forgotten already._

 

… … … …

 

“I am a selfish being, Anguirel.”

Mother-father-creator had them in his lap, but his eyes were fixed on the open window, where the gnarled branches and deep green leaves of Nan Elmoth all but twisted into the room.

“I would understand if you hated me for it.”

He slowly stroked their blade like a blind man, tracing the engraved runes that formed their name.

“I separated you from your twin, when I could have let Thingol take you both. You were bound to each other more than to me. You… I know you would not have mourned me as you mourn Anglachel. I could have –should have– spared you that pain.” They could feel his hand tremble. “But I didn’t. I am selfish, and loath to be parted from the things I love.” A dry, mirthless chuckle escaped him. “It is the greatest failing of my character, I’m afraid. My old master Gamil already used to say I was too much of a miser to really be an elf. He hadn’t met Thingol at the time, but still.”

Mother-father-creator sighed, looking down on them at last. His stern face was drawn in sadness.

“I couldn’t bear to speak of it, before. You were so anguished, and whenever I thought too long on the reason for that, I had to force myself to not run back to Thingol and demand your twin be returned to me, consequences be damned.” The words echoed with quiet sorrow. “So I concentrated on moving here, on the building of the house and finishing my commissions, and…“ Another sigh. “And thusly I did you a double injustice.”

Anguirel felt themself quiver. _They had thought he had forgotten. They had thought he didn’t care._

“You are well within your rights to hate me for what I did. Mahal knows people hate each other for less. But… “ His voice faltered, and he looked out the window again. “I want you to know I am sorry.”

They could have hated him. Loathed him, despised him. It wouldn’t have been very hard, and maybe they even had, at some point. But now they could feel the grief that resonated in his being, Anguirel found they couldn’t muster any hate for their mother-father-creator. They had thought they were _alone_. Not just alone in _lacking_ Anglachel, but alone in _missing_ them. To find that they weren’t… The ache they had kept in silence for so long shuddered inside of them, fighting against its voiceless constraints. They… They wanted to cry.

It was only when they felt their mother-father-creator soothingly stroke their blade and whisper calm words of comfort that Anguirel fully realized that they already were. Pained, desperate sobs racked through them, breaking out of their being in sound they hadn’t known they could make. It _hurt_ , it _hurt_ and they _couldn’t stop it_. They wept without tears; half panicked, half relieved, shuddering under the strain of all the sorrow they had kept inside.

“Sssh… Let it out. Just let it out.”

They didn’t know how long it took, but eventually the pain lessened, and the sound of their crying died away until there was only mother-father-creator’s familiar resonance, swathing them like a soft blanket.

“Better now?”

Mother-father-creator’s voice sounded faint and faraway, and Anguirel didn’t have the energy to answer. Suddenly overcome with tiredness, their awareness faded before their mind could formulate a response.

It was the first time they slept in months.

 

… … … …

 

Things did become better, afterwards. Without the bubble of silence to shield them, it was hard to keep from enjoying sword drills and careful polishing, or to stay disinterested in their mother-father-creator’s new crafts, or to refrain from following the goings-on in the workshop. Slowly, Anguirel realized they were coming to terms with their loss.

It frightened them, at first. It almost felt like betrayal. But in the end, it couldn’t be stopped. Anglachel’s absence found its place in their life. And life went on.

But mother-father-creator never replaced their sword rack, with its empty spot. Not even when he remodelled the entire workshop. They never thanked him for it. They weren’t sure if he did it for them.

 

… … … …

 

Noldor. Mother-father-creator didn’t like them. From what he said Anguirel understood it had something to do with them being murderers, but the undertone was never quite that simple. They couldn’t shake the feeling that these Noldor’s ostensible murderous exploits were the least of what made them so despicable in mother-father-creator’s eyes. More weight in the scale seemed to be their (apparent) conceitedness, their (apparent) disparagement of all not like them, elves and dwarves alike, their (apparent) lording over lands and people they had lost claim to many long years ago, and the gall they (apparently) had to present themselves as “saviours” and “bringers of culture” to the “backwards” population of Beleriand. Or so they learned from mother-father-creator. There might have been a touch of envy involved as well. Just a touch.

All in all, Anguirel wasn’t certain what to think of it. They had never met any Noldor, and for all that they trusted mother-father-creator’s judgement, his opinion on them seemed to be a lot more complex than his opinion on the fell beasts of the Enemy. In the end, they decided they’d just have to wait and see on what side of their blade the first Noldo they encountered would find himself. That would probably clear things up.

 

… … … …

 

One night, mother-father-creator Sang. They woke up from light slumber to see him standing at the window of the workshop, staring outside with a strange, atonal melody on his tongue. It was no song for them; no song even, they realized then, for living ears. It was an old song, a song of Craft, and mother-father-creator’s voice was at once the heat and the hammer. It rung through their metal, twisting and turning; a net, a trap, a thousand convoluted paths of possibility becoming one. Anguirel wanted to scream, but even their mindvoice was smothered by the song’s oppressive power, stifled within the iron of their being. They had never needed to breathe… but they thought this must be what suffocation felt like.

It frightened them, as only their dreams ever had, and as they curled in on themselves, Anguirel decided they wanted nothing to do with this.

 

... … … …

 

The morning brought a woman, ill-kempt and dirty, with a wild, frightful brightness in her eyes only dimmed by exhaustion. She fell at the doorstep, and mother-father-creator carried her inside, unperturbed as one who had expected such a thing to happen. He laid her down on the soft furs by the fire, and gently wiped the dirt of travel from her face with a moistened rag. He touched her as if she might cut him, like the edge of a blade he was testing. When she tried to speak, he calmly laid a finger on her lips.

“Sleep,” he told her. “You are safe now.”

There was no command in his voice, no fell song of old, and yet she sighed and obeyed, hiding the bright fire of her eyes behind weary lids. Against all their intentions, Anguirel was quietly fascinated. They knew how it felt, to be in that warm, reassuring place close to mother-father-creator, to be held in a sure, steady hand and to be cleaned and polished carefully... they couldn’t begrudge this woman, spoils of that dread song, the comfort. She looked as if she hadn’t had any in far too long.

 

… … … …

 

“You’re wondering why, aren’t you?”

Mother-father-creator had been polishing them, but his attentions had been distracted. Anguirel sent a quiet ripple of resonance back, the slightest nod. The smith smiled, wryly.

“I thought you would. You were always perceptive like that.”

The woman’s name was Aredhel, and she was Noldor. She was wild and uncouth, and yet there was pride in her bearing, and a touch of arrogant confidence so natural to her it must be inborn. The way she held herself betrayed a deep awareness of her surroundings and the impression she made in them, and there was a certain vanity in how she physically presented herself. Noble blood and courtly training, too innate to be hidden completely. Anguirel had seen enough nobles of Doriath to recognize it, and knew that the woman’s race and obvious highborn descent wouldn’t have escaped their mother-father-creator either. They didn’t understand why he had snared her with his song and brought her here, knowing all that.

_“She is everything you hate.”_

Mother-father-creator sighed.

“Hate is a large word, Anguirel, when one is all alone.”

They felt no hurt at those words, at being discounted so, because there was truth in it. Mother-father-creator was no blade like them. _No blade like Anglachel._ And while there were many things about being sheathed in flesh that they would never, could never understand, this much they knew. _Alone_ ness. To live without the warmth of one who resonates just right with one’s being. It was for him as it was for them. They were quiet for a while.

_“She is not… brother-sister-mate.”_

Now there was a smirk on mother-father-creator’s face, one that Anguirel had come to associate with them missing a nuance of something.

“Indeed, she is not.”

Anguirel felt that this _nuance_ had roots deep in the flesh they found so hard to comprehend, and an explanation would only bring more questions. So they asked nothing.

 

… … … …

 

The woman –Aredhel- was strong. She had steel in her voice, fire in her eyes, and Anguirel found they grudgingly came to respect her. But they didn’t like her. There was something cold inside her, a shiver of icy resonance they felt whenever she was near. It disquieted them. They suspected that if she touched or spoke to them, they might come to understand, and perhaps even learn to like her. Yet she never did, and as mother-father-creator never asked her to, they never learned more than what could be gleaned from observation alone. It was enough though, in a way.

Mother-father-creator would share wine with her, and soothingly thread his fingers through her hair as they sat by the fire. She would leave food in the workshop when he forgot to eat, and knead the tense muscles of his back with her slender hands. He forged her a new set of hunting knives. She mended his leather apron. Things of the flesh may have been strange, but Anguirel knew the quiet warmth of a shared resonance when they saw it.

_Perhaps being alone makes us indiscriminate in where we take our comfort._

… … … …

 

The fire in the workshop had already died down to embers when they came in, stumbling, ripping at each other’s garments. It was unlike anything Anguirel had ever seen. They fought for dominance like beasts, snarling and panting, claws out, fangs bared. Aredhel’s eyes were bright and fey, like glistening gems in the darkness. Mother-father-creator threw her on the largest anvil, and she wrapped her legs around him, dug her nails deeply into the pale skin of his back, struggled against him even as she kept him from leaving. He held her down and pounded into her, grunting, wrenching wild cries past her clenched teeth. Soon enough their fight became less erratic, a flowing, rhythmic thing underneath the hungry moans and the metallic smell of blood. Their resonance was as one, minds lost in the movements of their flesh. It was… mesmerizing. Anguirel let it touch them, sweep them up in its violent, fiery current, knowing that they might never feel something like this again.

Once it subsided, there was only fatigue. It was written on their faces, on the way they clutched each other for support more than anything else. They didn’t make it out of the workshop, letting themselves fall on the furs on the floor instead, a warm tangle of weary limbs and dazed minds. Sleep came quickly after that, weighing their lids shut and calming their breathing to a relaxed, synchronous cadence.

There was no sleep for Anguirel. Not after that, not when there was still such a torrent of feeling echoing through their metal. They weren't sure what they had witnessed, but they knew with a foreboding sense of core-deep certainty that it had been  _important_. 

 

… … … …

 

Anguirel had never given elven reproduction much consideration before. They had simply assumed -building on the base assumption that everything had to come from something- that elves had an origin and that there was a mechanism to their creation. Whatever that mechanism was hadn’t been prominent in their thoughts. In retrospect, the sword supposed, it was fitting that mother-father-creator and his woman had done what they did on the anvil.

The child was terrifyingly small. They were several times the length of the tiny bundle, and that simple fact made it very hard to imagine that one day the child would be a man grown, capable of wielding them. In fact, the thought was almost alarming. Something about the concept of growing, changing flesh was deeply discomforting to them.

Usually the child was with its… _mother_ , for it needed constant care and attention. It would wail incessantly when she wasn’t around, and sometimes even when she was. When it grew a little older though, mother-father-creator would often bring the little one into the smithy while its mother was otherwise occupied, and put it in a small crib right next to their sword rack. He would only work on small items and detailing during these times; nothing dangerous, nothing he couldn’t put away in a moment’s notice to check on the child. Still, Anguirel kept a silent watch on it while he worked. It had black hair, small pointy ears, and large, dark eyes, just like their mother-father-creator… but unlike his, the child’s eyes hid nothing in their black depths but honest curiosity. Anguirel barely remembered being that guileless, that new to the world…

_Everything was new, but I wasn’t frightened. Anglachel was there, and that was enough._

The pain was sudden and unexpected, crashing into them and clanging through their form, sending echoing tremors through their being. _Anglachel_! Ah, how they missed them, their brother-sister-mate. Their comforting resonance, their mindvoice, their advice. How they wished for them to be here now, to speak with them, to drift in dreams with them. _To not be alone._ For a single moment they were in agony, and the loss felt as fresh as it had the first day. Anguirel would have wailed like the child they were supposed to watch over… but right in that moment, just when they were teetering on the edge, said child did something extraordinary. It reached out to them. It was no random twitch, no unwitting movement. With its black eyes unblinking the child _looked_ at them, holding up that little hand as far as its tiny body could manage. As if it wanted to touch them. And Anguirel could feel it, the slightest hint of mental presence where they had not thought to look for it. The pain over Anglachel was pushed back by wonder.

_“Hello, tiny one. Can you hear me?”_

There was no coherent answer, but they could feel the child somewhat acknowledging their presence. Perhaps it was not capable of more.

_“I am your… sibling.”_

The word seemed like it fit for the relationship. Still they added,

_“That means I’ll take care of you.”_

Now the child let out a gurgling little laugh in response. Hearing the sound, a small bubble of something warm and giddy burst up in Anguirel.

_“Grow quickly, tiny one. I can’t wait for us to talk.”_

 

… … … …

 

The child was still small –smaller than them- but it could walk on its own now, and speak in halting sentences. It was generally quiet but ever intrepid, and dangerously curious after everything that went on in the forge. Mother-father-creator had eventually found himself obliged to replace the crib the child had outgrown with a pen to keep his offspring out of harm’s way. It was not a very dignified solution, yet despite having its explorations thwarted, the child wasn’t too bothered by the confinement. It would busy itself watching mother-father-creator at work, and neither the heat nor the harsh clanging and hissing that came with that work seemed to unsettle it.

Anguirel had tried to talk to the child, explain it about metalwork, the methods and materials their shared parent used… but though the elfling had begun using language, it had given no signs of understanding. There was no clear resonance, no communication; the child was merely a mental presence on the edge of their being, occasionally blinking up in bright flickers of emotion. They had thought it over, and finally concluded that it wasn’t so strange; the child wasn’t a finished work after all. It changed and learned and grew so much… It was still _becoming_ , like a blade glowing hot on the anvil, coming closer to its being with every hit of the hammer. It couldn’t _be_ yet.

Still, they believed the child must have heard them when they had passed on the only real advice they had with regards to flesh rather than metal.

_“Observe, tiny one. Observe and learn.”_

 

… … … …

 

They weren’t surprised when the child learned how to open the latches that kept the pen closed. Mother-father-creator didn’t berate the child, nor did he put it back in the enclosure. Instead, he helped the small child on a high seat next to his workbench, and began explaining what he was working on.

If swords could smile, Anguirel would have done so.

_I’m proud of you, tiny one._

… … … …

 

One day, mother-father-creator took them out of their rack, and held them out to the child, gravely stating,

“This is Anguirel.”

The child reached for them, as it had done all those years ago… but this time it managed to place its little hand on the flat of their blade, and the moment it touched them, something sprung to life. Another being, a _new_ being… velvety warm and dusky, searching for contact with a mixture of curiosity and trepidation. It was a wonderful, if somewhat uneasy feeling. Mother-father-creator smiled knowingly, and it was at them as much as at his offspring.

“This is Maeglin.”

In that moment, the child stopped being the child. As Anguirel heard the truth in the name, it settled in their metal, burned into their being like a brand, so they would forever know their sibling’s presence from any other. Maeglin. It was a good name. Fitting. They accepted the tentative mental touch, embraced it in what they hoped was welcoming resonance.

 _“You_ Are _now. Do you feel it?”_

And after a moment of hesitant silence, there was an answer. Bright, childlike amazement bounded through them.

_“I feel it!”_

 

… … … …

 

Outgrown, the high seat at the workbench soon made place for a small step-stool; by the time that lost use as well, Maeglin had changed from a small child to a lanky youth.

He was his father’s student. No, not student. The word didn’t quite fit. _Disciple_. Robed in black and leather, they laboured side by side in the forge. Mother-father-creator was a patient but relentless taskmaster; he set no unattainable goals and never minded explaining or demonstrating something multiple times, but neither did he let his son rest until he had mastered it. They didn’t speak much outside of metalwork… but Anguirel didn’t think they needed it. There was a warm, simple understanding between them that didn’t seem to require much in the way of speech.  

_Like Anglachel and me._

The thought hurt… but for the first time in a long while, Anguirel realized it was a good hurt. Not bitter. They were happy mother-father-creator was no longer alone.

 

… … … …

 

Occasionally, Maeglin polished them. The boy’s resonance was nothing like mother-father-creator’s, too young and uncertain to have that same grounding presence… but he was careful and thorough when he took care of them, and as they grew more familiar with him, Anguirel found that with familiarity came a deeper fondness. They _liked_ him. (Perhaps even loved him.) However, that didn’t blind them from the strangeness in Maeglin. His being was always tinged with nervousness, full of restless echoes that reminded them of the fire in Aredhel’s eyes. There were secrets fidgeting under his skin. Sometimes Anguirel caught shards of them, unintentionally. Stories full of brightness not found in Nan Elmoth, and songs in an unfamiliar, lilting tongue. And a name, that somehow didn’t quite fit, didn’t quite resonate right. _Lomion_.

They would never have mentioned it, if not for that name. That name… There was something foreboding about it, and it didn’t sit well with Anguirel.

 

… … … …

 

_“Aredhel named him before you did.”_

Mother-father-creator’s expression held nothing but weariness.

“I know.”

_“Do… Do you not mind?”_

A sigh.

“Do you know why I only named him when I did?”

Anguirel considered how to word the feeling he had had about that.

_“He wasn’t finished yet, before. Not ready.”_

The smith slowly nodded, lips twitching in a small, pleased smile.

“Perceptive as always.” A shiver of pride ran through Anguirel at that. “A name should be what you are, not what you must become. Names have power. Truth. If they don’t resonate with what you are, they become a doom rather than a description. This is why we do not give them lightly.”

It must be difficult, Anguirel thought, to name something so subject to change as an elfchild, to pin down a truth about their being that was constant. It was no wonder that it had taken mother-father-creator some time.

_“Why did you not tell her this?”_

“What makes you think she didn’t already know?”

There was a biting cynicism in his voice. Internally, Anguirel recoiled at it.

_“Surely she wouldn’t…”_

“Noldor have only knowledge. Not wisdom.” He disdainfully shook his head. “And they have an unfortunate habit of bringing doom on themselves.”

 

… … … …

 

There was a dissonance between Aredhel and mother-father-creator. It was almost unnoticeable at first, so slight and immaterial it was… but it was there. Anguirel noticed, even though they themselves seemingly did not. Something about what had previously been an oddly harmonious concord now seemed out of sync. A bit too fast, too restless on one side, a little too heavy and grasping on the other. Just not quite right anymore.

Aredhel was always staring out of windows, faltering in doorways. Mother-father-creator made her jewellery, too heavy to wear on hunts. She spoke to Maeglin in that strange Noldor tongue of hers. He wouldn’t speak to Maeglin at all. When he left on long trips she would sleep in the workshop, and curl up like a child in his furs. When he came home she would jump her horse and ride off into the woods with nary a word. He raised his voice against her. She raised her voice against Maeglin. It was a discord that grew slowly, like hairline cracks in fatigued metal.

It was strange to them. How people could _change_ , how what had been companionable resonance could become more and more like the clanging of enemy blades as time went by. They couldn’t understand it.

 

… … … …

 

“Anguirel… what does it mean to be brother-sister-mates?”

They had told Maeglin about Anglachel, wanting him to know of his other sibling, and how much they meant to them … but of all the questions the boy could have had, that one surprised them. They hesitated to explain, trying to find the right words.

 _“Brother-sister-mate is… one you are one with, even though you are two. The same make, the same material. It is a feeling of… belonging.”_ They halted for a moment, cringing internally at the pang of longing they felt. “ _A kinship of sorts, closest kin. No one will ever understand you better. You will never know anyone quite as well.”_

Maeglin frowned at them, putting his polishing cloth aside.

“Are mother and father like this?”

_“No.”_

Not even close. Maeglin raised an eyebrow.

“Then what are they?”

 _“They’re…”_ Anguirel didn’t know what they were. After a moment of indecision, they settled on, “ _Complicated_.”

At that Maeglin picked up his cloth again, a smirk on his lips that didn’t quite reach his eyes.

“I know.”

In that moment, despite his still-small stature, he looked almost exactly like his father.

 

… … … …

 

“You will stop filling the boy’s head with that nonsense!”

There were heated words in the forge, tangible anger. Aredhel stood by the window, mother-father-creator by the largest anvil. The woman nearly growled at him.

“Nonsense? It’s his heritage! He deserves to know!”

Mother-father-creator clenched his fists, but somehow kept his voice steady.

“I have been lenient with you in this. Or do you think I don’t know you taught him your Quenya?” He spit out the word as if it tasted bad. “Do you think I don’t know about your bedtime stories, or your history lessons, or that family tree you drew him? Do you think I am that _stupid_?”

Something in Aredhel’s eyes told Anguirel that yes, a part of her had thought her little insurrections had gone completely unnoticed. The smith saw it too. His expression oozed contempt.

“I know everything that goes on here, Aredhel. _Everything_. You’d better remember that.” He glared at her. “I have been lenient exactly because I did not want to deny our son whatever knowledge you could pass on to him. I didn’t want him to grow up ignorant of the world. But he must know his place in it, and that place is _here_! I will _not_ have you teach him to disrespect me or scorn the life he has!”

“That’s not what I do!”

“You fill his head with tales of towering palaces and noble titles, endless feasts and infinite richness, and you don’t think that sends a young boy’s head spinning?”

Aredhel held her head high, her fiery eyes sharp.

“None of it is a lie. He could have all that, if he wanted to. It’s his birth right.”

Mother-father-creator was barely containing his anger now, gripping the anvil before him as if he might smash something otherwise.

“Tell me, _Princess_.” The title was no less than the foulest expletive. “If your white city was such a paradise of light and beauty, why did you leave? You braved the spawn of Ungoliant just to get away from it; you even _swore you would never return_! You loathed the place! And now you’re painting it as some kind of dreamland for our child?”

Aredhel clenched her teeth.

“You don’t understand!”

Mother-father-creator slammed his fist into a half-finished project lying on the anvil, scattering bits of precious metal over the floor.

“Damn right I don’t! But I do know one thing. If I hear one more word of that filthy kinslayer’s tongue in my house, you are going to regret it! I will have no more of this insolence!”  

The woman trembled in fury. Her face was like a mask when she whispered,

“I hate you.”

With that, she swept out of the workshop. After the door slammed close behind her, mother-father-creator stared at it for a while, his entire being still shuddering in anger. Yet as the rage bled out of him his shoulders slumped, and he hung his head in a rare display of defeat. He looked… miserable. Anguirel wished there was anything they could say, anything at all to comfort him, but words failed them.

_Words are hard._

People rarely communicated clearly. They used words to cloak what they meant rather than to elucidate it. Much like their beings were covered in flesh, their truth was always covered in layers of speech and things left unspoken, like an immaterial puzzle box. It was deeply frustrating.

_I’m sorry I don’t have anything better to offer._

 

… … … …

 

Time passed, and still they didn’t speak to each other. They talked, yes, and they fought, and occasionally they mated, but they never really _spoke_ , and while Aredhel slammed doors and mother-father-creator smashed unfinished crafts, the cracks between them widened, slowly and irreversibly.

Mother-father-creator was quiet and purposeful, grounded and sharp, and very much like a blade in how he expected his resonance to carry meaning more than his words. Anguirel had simply assumed all elves were like this. It seemed a natural, logical way to be. But Aredhel was different. She was cold and hot and restless, and she seemed to want _proof_ , want _reassurance_ , want _speech_ in a manner that felt distinctly illogical and unnatural to them. She was different in such a way that Anguirel was starting to think that perhaps mother-father-creator was an exception, and elves were much stranger than they had initially assumed.

If anything, they learned that beings of flesh were very good at twisting the obvious into something convoluted. Like an animal caught in thorny vines, they tended to flail about in panic, all the while only tangling themselves up further. It was not a very flattering image… though the most tangled up in this whole mess was undoubtedly Maeglin. The boy often sat down to polish them when his parents were screaming at each other in another part of the house, his mind a distraught muddle of questions. _Why is father so cruel to mother? Why did they marry if they hate each other so much? Does my father hate me too because I have Noldor blood?_ _Do I even really belong here?_ Would it that they had better answers than they did. Anguirel often despaired about it. It wasn’t easy to explain to someone so young and inexperienced the trappings of loneliness and cruelty born from frustration, especially since they didn’t fully understand it themself. They didn’t know how to put in words that cruelty wasn’t just stern refusals and silence and fists smashed into table tops, that it was also subtle disregard and avoidance and secret Quenya lessons. Maeglin was very much like his child-self in these moments, more emotion than communication, so in the end they always just tried to comfort him, foregoing explanations.

_Where would you belong if not here? You are mother-father-creator’s son. My sibling. Never doubt that you are loved, tiny one._

They wished they could make him feel that this was _home_. But it was hard to convince someone of something you weren’t sure of yourself.

 

… … … …

 

Occasionally, mother-father-creator took them on trips, to the dwarven kingdoms where he had grown up. Anguirel had tasted their first blood on one of these journeys, halfway between Nan Elmoth and Belegost when a band of orcs had crossed their path. Victory had been swift then, but sometimes they still felt echoes of the heady rush of battle that had overtaken them. It had been glorious. They were happy that mother-father-creator usually stayed safe, but a part of them –the part that had _sung_ at the feeling of death on their edge- thought it was a pity they didn’t get to fight more often.

Mother-father-creator didn’t always take them along –more often not, actually. They suspected the covetous looks many dwarves threw at them had something to do with that. Mother-father-creator was nothing if not possessive. Still, those times they did get to go, they enjoyed tremendously. Dwarves were different, but different in a comforting, understandable way. Their resonance was deep and rumbling like the stone that surrounded them, and they had a tendency towards gruff bluntness that Anguirel could appreciate. Mother-father-creator’s old master Gamil Zirak was long since dead, but his former student Telchar, now a master armour-smith himself, still lived in Nogrod to welcome them. He was the only one who mother-father-creator allowed to touch them. Kin, by choice if not by nature. The dwarf was stoic and taciturn, but he had a biting sense of humour that drew even from mother-father-creator the occasional laugh. Anguirel had decided they liked him the first time they had heard the usually so austere elf-smith break out in uncharacteristic guffaws at some dryly delivered quip. Nogrod was a good place for their mother-father-creator. (If he had been a little less tall, they didn’t think he would ever have left.)

Nogrod was also a good place for Maeglin. The first time he had come along he had been taut with nervousness bordering on fear, but it hadn’t taken long before his insecurity had turned to wonder and excitement. Now, no day of their stay passed without him being covered in soot from the craft halls or dust from the mines when he returned to their quarters, excitedly talking about some new technique he had learned, some beautiful gem he had dug up, or some wonderful cave he had explored. In his free time he let dwarven children ride on his back, and he dutifully played a monster of the Enemy in their valiant play-battles. And in the rare moments that neither his crafts nor the little ones were occupying him (usually around dinnertime), he showered the more indulgent inhabitants of Nogrod with questions about life under the mountain. It was all in all plain to see that Maeglin was happy here. It almost hurt, to see him like this and to realize how rare this bright happiness was for him when they were in Nan Elmoth. (If only he was a little less tall, he could have stayed.)

They thought Nogrod was a good place for them as well. Any place that made their family happy was a good place for them.

 

… … … …

 

It was one of the times that mother-father-creator took Maeglin along to the dwarves, but not them. The workshop was empty, the fires extinguished, the worktables clear. Especially at night it felt… desolate. Abandoned. _Or maybe that was just them._

They didn’t expect to see anyone until mother-father-creator and his son returned from their travels with new ores and stories… they certainly didn’t expect to see Aredhel in her nightshirt. The time she would keep the fires lit and sleep in the workshop in her husband’s absence had long passed, and nowadays she rarely set foot in it anymore. Still… there she was, wandering between the tools and tables like an underdressed apparition. She absently walked through the room, touching everything, trailing her hand over the furniture as if to commit it all to memory. Then, when she almost stood before them, she suddenly pointed those unsettling fire-eyes straight at them.

“My husband told me once that if you speak to metal often enough, in time it speaks back.” There was an accusatory glint in her eyes as she raised an eyebrow at them. “He’s probably said more to you than he ever has to me. Do you speak back yet, sword? Or was that just another figure of speech of a man who can’t handle conversation with a living being?

Her words dripped bitterness and contempt, and Anguirel was sincerely tempted to simply hold still and let her wallow in her anger until it ran out. However, curiosity got the better of them, and they reached outwards, to the cold fire that was Aredhel wife of Eöl. They weren’t sure she would hear, as she wasn’t touching them, but they couldn’t stop themself from trying.

_“My name is Anguirel. And I am very much a living being, I’m afraid.”_

Her eyes widened.

“What demon craft…”

Aredhel had instinctively set a step back at hearing their mindvoice, but after her eyes darted through the empty room, confirming there was no other who may have touched her mind, she reached out and lifted them out of their rack. There was wonder in her gaze, despite her obvious distrust. She shook her head, staring at their blade.

“How is this possible…”

_“Your husband made me.”_

She shook her head again, more resolutely now, and Anguirel could feel how something in her mind steeled itself as if in preparation for an onslaught.

“This is a dream. It must be. I am dreaming.”

They could try to convince her, might even succeed, but they decided it wasn’t worth the effort. Mentally, they shrugged.

_“If that’s what you want to believe. But you’re here now. You might as well have a talk with me.”_

Aredhel smiled lopsidedly, her confidence returning in the conviction this was only a strange reverie.

“I might as well, huh?” She snickered lightly to herself. “What gives. Anguirel, was it?”

_“Indeed.”_

She sat down on mother-father-creator’s favourite chair, laying them in her lap.

“Are you ever lonely, Anguirel?”

They hadn’t expected that question. Yet after a moment of silence they acquiesced,

_“Sometimes.”_

She shook her head again.

“Tssss. You’re almost as monosyllabic as my husband. You were the one who wanted to talk, you should at least put some effort in it. Make conversation.”

There was something jarring about the way she joked about it. Anguirel felt the need to retaliate.

 _“Very well. What about you, lady Aredhel? Are_ you _lonely? You must be, to come here like this.”_

“Touché.” Her smile had something dejected now, as she stared down at them. “And yes. I am lonely. If you can call it that. I am… so very lonely.”

_“Why?”_

“I miss… something. I always miss something.” She tiredly closed her eyes for a moment. “I don’t know. I don’t know what I want. Just, something.”

They shivered. Aredhel’s entire being felt cold, and her words concealed a hopeless, aching _need_ … a need that they recognized all too well. She might not know what she wanted… but they did. They would know that feeling anywhere.

_“Home. You want to go home.”_

Anguirel could honestly say they had never seen anything quite so broken as the look in Aredhel’s eyes then. Her voice cracked when she spoke.

“But home is gone.”

And they understood. For all that they wished they didn’t, they understood. They didn’t even need the shards of memory that drifted in Aredhel’s mind, didn’t need to see shining white towers and golden light and groaning ice and choking darkness to comprehend that _home_ was _gone_. Because _home_ wasn’t a gleaming white city or a wealth of golden radiance. She could have had all that back and it wouldn’t have been home. Home was a family that was whole, and eyes that had never seen death, hands that had never been stained red, skin that had never felt cold in more than passing. _Home_ was the absence of that tightly coiled ball of anxiety in the pit of her stomach that made her want to run until she collapsed in exhaustion.

Anguirel remembered that once, in the early days, they had believed that if only Aredhel would touch them and speak with them, they would come to understand her, and learn to like her. Now, they wished the thought had never crossed their mind.

They thought of oppressive silence. Of an empty spot in their sword rack, and a smithy full of memories. Of uncertainty, and the core-deep knowledge that nothing could ever be as it had been. They thought of Anglachel.

Understanding _hurt_.

Aredhel returned them to their sword rack without another word. There were unshed tears in her eyes, and Anguirel knew there would be no more conversation that night. It was just as well. They didn’t think they could have spoken anymore.

… … … …

 

Mother-father-creator and Maeglin returned the next day, and unexpectedly Aredhel came to greet them in the workshop, smiling at her husband, wrapping her son up in a hug. In-between the pleasantries they felt her eyes on them, as in question. They held still. Soon enough she stopped looking, and they could almost feel the tension clear, the memory of their conversation being filed away as nothing but a product of her imagination. It was just as well. They didn’t think they ever wanted to speak to her again.    

 

… … … …

 

Anglachel was in the forefront of their mind more often now, as if awoken by the touch of Aredhel’s chaotic being. Thinking of them still hurt, but the pain was different now. Less… self-centred. They thought of Anglachel being torn from them and sold out to their enemy, and the more they considered it, the more they realized how deeply betrayed their brother-sister-mate must have felt. By mother-father-creator. _By them_. They all too well remembered the bewildering agony of losing Anglachel, and finding that they couldn’t even imagine what it must have been like for the other blade sent shivers of anguish through their metal. They may have lost their brother-sister-mate… but Anglachel had lost everything.

_(How had they not realized this? Who would have thought their pain had been so selfish?)_

Anguirel had thought they had forgiven mother-father-creator, but now they understood they had only forgiven him for what he had done to _them_. They doubted they would ever be able to forgive him for what he had done to Anglachel.

_(They doubted they would ever forgive themself.)_

 

… … … …

 

“I feel like maybe I don’t belong here, Anguirel.”

Maeglin sat on the floor of the workshop, with his back against the wall in the exact spot where once his crib had stood. He polished them almost automatically, his mind elsewhere. A deep sigh passed his lips.

“I don’t know. I mean, it’s like, maybe there is a place I would fit better.”

Unspoken, there was the thought that maybe that place was one of white towers and sunshine and freely spoken Quenya. _Ondolindë_. The name was one of the many jittery secrets in his mind.

Anguirel thought about the halls of Nogrod and the halls of Menegroth, and that it wasn’t because one place didn’t fit you perfectly that another place would fit you better. But they weren’t sure how to put that in proper words. (Maeglin had a proclivity for _words_ they suspected came from his mother’s part of the alloy, and he didn’t listen half as well as his father did.)

“And mother might be happier if she could go back home. You know. Put a bit of distance between her and father.”

The boy resonated with sad wistfulness when they gently reached out for him.

_“I’m not sure your mother can be really happy anywhere.”_

Aredhel carried her past with her wherever she went, and she could no more escape it than she could outrun her own shadow. For all that mother-father-creator certainly had his hand in her current unhappiness, Anguirel knew he wasn’t the root cause of it. And neither was Maeglin, for that matter. Their sibling had never fully let go of the strange idea that somehow he was a mistake, his creation an accident that had tied two completely unsuitable people together. That it was his fault that his parents were stuck with each other. Anguirel sincerely didn’t believe it was possible to create a new life by accident and had told him so often enough, but the thought had its claws deep in Maeglin’s anxious, secret-riddled being, too deep for them to dislodge. Maybe it was because they couldn’t help but agree with the notion that Aredhel and mother-father-creator were wholly unsuited for each other. Maeglin shrugged.

“Even then. Surely she’d be happier if she had her family, and her freedom.”

They doubted it. Whatever there was in Ondolindë, whatever it was Aredhel had left there, they sincerely doubted it was freedom. And as for family…

_“You and mother-father-creator are her family.”_

Maeglin wanted to retort, but was interrupted by the sound of raised voices and breaking crockery, deeper in the house. He winced.

“I just don’t understand why… why they are as they are.”

Neither did they, and the more they learned, the less they felt like they wanted to. Anguirel sighed.

_“People are difficult.”_

At least that they could agree on.

 

… … … …

 

The silence between mother-father-creator and his son, once so warm and full of mutual understanding, had become a poisoned, bitter thing; a device of cruelty on one side, an act of rebellion on the other. It was like a wedge being driven between them, slowly working apart what had once been thoroughly meshed. Anguirel had never wished more for a form that needed no hand to wield it, or a voice that resounded at their own behest. They had never felt so powerless.

Mother-father-creator and Aredhel had fallen apart in much the same way, but it hadn’t struck them so badly then. They had been so unsuited to each other from the start that it hadn’t been all that surprising, when it eventually happened. But mother-father-creator and Maeglin were _kin_. They were similar in make and material, _meant_ to resonate in sync. They had almost been like them and Anglachel. The way that intended resonance became more dissonant with every day their silence grew more indomitable was just… _wrong_. Something deep inside them churned and rebelled against the notion that even so strong a bond could unravel, made them sick with anger and grief and their own inability to stop it from happening. Anguirel wanted to yell and scream at them, make them speak, make them listen, do anything just to put an end to this... but it seemed that they too were doomed to silence.

_Words are hard, but it's harder without them._

 

… … … …

 

It was only when they saw Maeglin pack his tools and his things from the workshop with the look of a man haunted, his mother in the door opening with her travel cloak on, that they understood what was happening. They were leaving. _Running_. And as soon as their sibling had packed all he wanted from the workshop, he turned to them.

They could have stayed, easily. They considered it. He wouldn’t have acted against their wishes; one word, and he would have put them back in the sword rack and left them behind. Yet when they felt his hand around their hilt, the resonant conviction in his mind, their refusal died unspoken.

It was part resentment; the simmering anger for what had been done to their brother-sister-mate. (The sickening _shame_ of what they had allowed to be done to them.) Part was the unspeakable terror that gripped them whenever they looked at Maeglin and mother-father-creator and saw all what had held them together crumble. But the greater part of it was hope. A broken hope, that they would all find what they were looking for.

Aredhel ran because she needed someone to run after her (with her) and catch her when she fell. 

Maeglin ran because he needed to see the world to recognize where it was that he belonged in it.

And they ran along with them, because –and it was only now they fully realized this- they needed to find Anglachel.

They might not find them; in fact, they most likely wouldn’t. The world was a frightfully big place. But Anguirel didn’t think they would be able to live with themself any longer if they didn’t even try.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I intended to write Anguirel's story in one part, but the fact remains that Anguirel had a lot more happen in their life than Anglachel, and this chapter would have become humongous if I had kept it in one piece. So, hence the "part one" situation.
> 
> Now, prepare for feels, because I have a lot of them. 
> 
> In my idea, Eöl wasn't the complete creeper most people depict him as. Sure, he's not the most lovable character, but I honestly believe he gets a lot more hate for what he did to Aredhel than he deserves. Yes, magically trapping Aredhel in Nan Elmoth until she ended at his door was extremely dubious as far as ways to get a date go, but I don't think he raped her or magically coerced her to stay.  
> To me, Aredhel is a very flawed and damaged character, who was probably traumatized by the kinslaying and the crossing of the Helcaraxë. She desperately wants to come home somewhere, but every time she finds such a place, it is not the home she misses (the one that is irreversibly gone) and she can't help but feel trapped and need to run. She wants to feel safe, but her anxiety is an internal thing that always rears its head eventually, and then what felt safe becomes like a trap she has to escape. (And this is the main cause of her unhealthy relationships. You can't tell me there isn't a pattern in how she keeps ending up in sheltered, closed off environments under the care of a dominant man, only to break out and run away from them.)  
> You can tell, I have a lot of thoughts about this, and I tried my best to sketch it out, but it's very possible that I failed.  
> I wanted to show that she did love Eöl, and that he loved her, but that they both had too many underlying issues for their relationship to work out. In short, I think he certainly did Aredhel wrong, but she did him wrong as well, and I don't believe he deserves all the blame for the utter shitshow that was their marriage and their raising of Maeglin. 
> 
> As for said raising… Anguirel thought it completely logical that it took 12 years for Eöl to name Maeglin, because they didn't consider him a "finished" being until that time. Aredhel sadly didn't agree with that notion.   
> Noldor believe in the tradition of insight-names that predict something about the child's character or eventual fate, and they don't always see that sometimes, the name is not so much a prediction as a doom. (Remember Nerdanel, who wouldn't give her twin sons separate names because she felt that there hung a doom over them, and that if she named them separately said doom would solidify itself?)   
> Eöl refused to name Maeglin for so long because he wanted to avoid placing such a doom on his child. (In retrospect, that is painfully ironic, no?) Aredhel didn't understand this -mainly because Eöl never tried to use his words and explain it- and gave Maeglin a name of her own, which became the start of a lot of misery. (This is only one example of how their inability to properly communicate destroys their relationship, by the way.)
> 
> Being a sword, Anguirel doesn't understand a lot of the things that come natural to people with fleshy bodies. Like sex (morbidly fascinating, yet mystifying), growing bodies (extremely disconcerting), and incest (I don't think they know it's a thing, and they would probably find it nonsensical if they did.)  
> Alongside from them being an observer to Eöl's train-wreck of a family, they also have problems of their own. Mainly, Anglachel. In opposite to said sword, who as we saw in chapter 1 never managed to come to terms with their grief, Anguirel actually does a commendable job at dealing with it and giving it a place in their life. But, as it turns out, it's not enough. In the end, they feel like they did Anglachel wrong, and that they need to make amends for it, somehow. They can't stand the thought that their bond might crumble and turn spiteful like the bond between Eöl and his son. And so, they leave… (oh, if only they had stayed… just consider that!)
> 
> You may have noticed I mentioned Telchar, who is responsible for several meaningful artifacts, like the sword Narsil, the nameless dagger that cut the Silmaril from Morgoth's crown, and the dragon-helm of Dor Lomin. As said before, in this story Eöl was fostered by the dwarves of Nogrod. The one who taught him metalwork was the dwarven smith Gamil Zirak (who has the epitaph "the old", so for the purpose of timeline I assume he became quite a bit older than the average dwarf), who also taught Telchar. (I'm not sure at all this works with the timeline whatsoever, but I liked the idea so I went with it. Forgive me. If it is any solace, canonically Eöl must have known Telchar for sure.)
> 
> So, that's it for part one of Anguirel's life story. The worst is yet to come, of course. Please review! I honestly want to know your opinions on this piece of strangeness I wrote. I'll try to answer questions to the best of my ability.


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